Gluey Tart: Blank Slate

Blank Slate, by Aya Kanno
published in English in October 2008 by Viz Media
There’s a second (and final) volume, which was published in December 2008.

Welcome to “Gluey Tart: Adventures in Manporn.” I’m writing this column because manporn is an extremely important subject. Well, not really. I’m writing this because I’m obsessed, and, more important, because someone asked me.

There are a lot of people reading manporn in the U.S. (I’m going to use the terms “manporn” and “yaoi” more or less interchangeably. I define “yaoi” loosely – and I mean that in every sense of the word – as romantic stories written by and for women about beautiful men having sex.) If you go to Borders and scan the shelves, you’ll see lots of titles from June, Blu, and Deux. There are others, but those three are pretty reliable. There are lots of other sources as well, but my point is, it’s easily accessible. Borders, people. Why does that matter? Well, there’s a lot of us. We’re not as crazy and marginal as we looked even five years ago. Maybe I’m just trying to have a self-esteem moment.

Or maybe we’re talking about a big market for a largely marginalized group in U.S. comics: women. I invite you to draw your own conclusions about how much that matters. I’m mostly going to talk about yaoi and shonen-ai manga that have caught my eye, and natter happily about them. (Quick note: people disagree about everything, including the meaning and proper usage of “yaoi” and “shonen ai.” I use “yaoi” to mean “there’s sex!” and “shonen-ai” to mean “no sex, but sigh, look at the meaningful eye contact!”)

Oh, about the pseudonym. I use it because it’s only polite. I write porn on the Internet, and while I am proud of this endeavor, I am not eager to have my employers, coworkers, acquaintances, and family members casually Google me and wind up reading something that has the word “cock” seven times in the first paragraph. Because is this something they want to know about me? It is not.

Which leads us (more or less) to the first review. I use this word almost carelessly, albeit with gusto. There are sites that do proper reviews of yaoi manga and novels. My favorite is “Boys Next Door,” where they make a proper attempt at summarizing the plot and that sort of thing. What am I going to write about, then? We’ll see. No sex in my first selection, because there isn’t any. Not even any of those longing looks, because there aren’t any of those, either. What we do have is pretty boy overload, and a certain unmistakable vibe.

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The boy on the cover is pretty. So pretty. All the major characters are pretty. Cool, angsty-looking pretty boys with big guns. Did I mention that they’re pretty? They really are. I’m not sure who’s who all the time. I’m not always sure what’s happening. Don’t misunderstand – we’re not talking about confusion that rips space and time. We’re talking about a series of brow-furrowing, minor WTF moments that end with a quiet snort of “Oh, I don’t care anyway.” My willingness to accept this kind of thing is not infinite; far from it. I will put the book down and move on to the next shiny object, no matter how pretty the boys are. Blank Slate is well within my tolerances for not making sense. And, not to belabor the point, the boys are so pretty.

It isn’t just the pretty. I was going to say there isn’t enough pretty in the world to make up for some messes, but that might be a lie. In this case, though, the story is entertaining enough, in a thug-style James Bond meets the Matrix sort of way. The exceedingly pretty protagonist of Blank Slate, Zen (isn’t that deep?), is an amnesiac master assassin – and I don’t mind admitting that it makes me sigh happily just to write those words. I could summarize the plot, such as it is, but it doesn’t really matter. There are three casually related stories that you really wish were more closely related, but they aren’t. Zen is the constant – cool and almost supernaturally competent. The story is atmospheric and stylish. You’ve heard that before? You’ve heard everything in this manga before. It’s OK.

Zen. Is he bad? You know it. But deep down, underneath it all, does he have a heart of gold? Well, no, thank God. And is he hot? So, so hot. Hot, beautiful, mystery assassin boy. It works, despite being a big old cliché fest. The art is lovely, and the story is basically satisfying in a vague but solidly cool, noir sort of way. This book made me want to go out and buy a pair of spy sunglasses, and maybe one of those ’70s navy blue sniper trench coats. Possibly a t-shirt that says “Assassins do it from behind.” And I don’t know about you, but I call that satisfaction.

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Bound to Blog: Wonder Woman #2

As I said last week at about this time, I’m trying to blog through all the issues of the Marston/Peter run on Wonder Woman. I’m hoping to post about one issue every Thursday and this is the second.

And yeah, I know this is Wednesday. I jumped the gun; maybe I’ll do it Wednesday or Thursday, depending? We’ll see, I guess.
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So I do love that cover, but it’s nothing compared to the initial splash page:

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Thank you sir, may I have another?

It’s probably wrong for me to admit this, but I’ve danced around it before, and I might as well just come out and say it — I often find Peters’ soft-core efforts quite sexy. There’s something about the unabashed flowery femme of the designs and the stiffness of the figures that I definitely find appealing. He must have too, surely; WW is usually seen as all about Marston’s sexual obsessions, which I’m sure it was, but Peter must have had a fair bit to do with the goings on as well. In this drawing, for example — was it Marston who suggested that the big, tough Greek warriors should be wearing such frilly kilts? And the armor he’s got with all the filigree — and the colors! Ares (standing in the background yucking it up) really looks like he’s wearing a red dress. Peter has decided to make the God of War a transvestite. I don’t know…maybe it could all be Marston turning in incredibly detailed scripts a la Alan Moore…but I’m skeptical.

Anyway, unlike the last effort, this is essentially a single story — which means it’s virtually as long as a mini-series, clocking in at more than 60 pages. Even with a short story about Clara Barton and a prose piece, that’s a hell of a lot of pages…was this thing monthly? No, it says “Fall” on the cover, so I guess it must have been quarterly. Though Peter was also drawing WW’s adventures in Sensation Comics at the same time…it’s a lot of drawing, anyway you look at it.

So what is the plot of this gigundus story? Well, Ares is pissed because WW keeps catching Nazi spies. This pisses off Ares because, as he says in that little inset panel above, “If America wins, war on Earth will end!” So Ares sets out to capture Wonder Woman, throw her in chains, make her his slave…you know the drill. He does this by arranging for the capture of Steve Trevor’s astral form. (How this works is a little unclear…but onward!) Steve is then taken to Mars, because Mars is where you live if you’re the God of War. WW leaves her body in the care of Etta Candy:

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With those “woo-woos” WW whooshes up to Mars, where, after wearing a lot of chains and engaging in a series of healthy tests of strength, with some light spanking thrown in for good measure, she frees Steve and travels back to earth. Enraged, Ares sends a series of minions to recapture her: the Earl of Greed, the Duke of Deception, and the Count of Conquest. After many trials (by baseball, among other things) WW defeats them all, even Ares — ending war on earth! Okay, not quite; I guess he’s still got minions around or something. There will be more issues, in any case; they promise.

Since we’ve raised the weighty and altogether unfortunate profile of Etta Candy — it’s really worth pointing out what a completely bizarre character she is. It’s not just the “woo-woos!” and the fact that practically every speech bubble she’s given has to mention at least once how much she likes candy. That would just make her the comic relief. But what’s really strange is how important she is to the plot. As we saw above, Etta tended WW’s body while our hero was off on Mars. Etta’s far more than just a passive helper, though. In the battle with the Duke of Deception, for example, the Duke creates a fake Wonder Woman duplicate body (no, I don’t know why. Don’t ask silly questions.) Wonder Woman manages to capture the fake body…and then puts Etta’s mind in the duplicate body.

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And in the final battle against Ares, when WW is tied up and helpless, she sends a mental radio message to Etta who somehow goes astral, brings acid (astral acid?) and frees WW.

In other words, plot-wise Etta isn’t really comic relief; she’s the indispensable assistant — even the cavalry. It’s *her*, not Steve Trevor, who gets to save Wonder Woman. Wonder Woman seems to treat her more or less as an equal, and Etta seems to see herself that way as well — Etta certainly, and bizarrely, doesn’t seem to see WW as someone to envy or aspire to — when her brain is placed in that slender, perfect body, all Etta can think about is how much she wants to go back to eating candy.

Obviously, it’s a bit of a leap to see Etta Candy as some kind of feminist icon. But…I don’t know. Compared to some of her later iterations (sex kitten cameo on the animated movie; loyal sidekick and romantic interest for Steve in the Perez run), fat, self-confident, and (perhaps mystifyingly, but still) competent doesn’t seem too bad.

Certainly, she seems to have it all over Steve.

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As you can see, in the last page of the first section, when they’ve escaped from Mars, it’s Etta who actually gets to share an embrace with WW. In the next panel, Steve expresses a very natural confusion about what the hell happened to a slave girl who helped them escape from Mars — and WW positively condescends to him. “You *would* think of her!” Silly man; you’ve only got one thing in your pretty little heads! But don’t worry, Steve, your little friend trotted back to her consensual B&D relationship with, ahem, the Count of Conquest! Now you silly little thing, let me tie you up and explain to you that you must never, never leave the house without an escort. You just have to have a firm hand with these men or the little dears will get themselves into trouble. Now let’s just settle things between us women, Etta. Could you fly to Mars with a bottle of acid, sneak into the dungeon of the God of War, and burn through my chains please? By tomorrow? And don’t tell Steve…he worries so!

You may be wondering why on earth Wonder Woman needed to get Etta out to Mars anyway; why not just break her chains herself?

The answer is that Wonder Woman allowed her bracelets to be chained together by a man, which robs her of her powers:

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Oooookay. But…what about this?

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There’s Wonder Woman from earlier in the same issue. Looks to me like her wrists are changed together, right? And she’s looking pretty super there (incidentally, note that Peter appears to have gratuitously drawn in visible nipples on the woman WW is defeating. He does that occasionally.)

Of course, Marston isn’t a stickler for continuity. Still, what’s different between *this* binding and the other one?

The answer seems to be that in the instance where she lost her powers, WW was bound by a dark, handsome Italian.

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As the Count of Conquest’s minion explains:

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WW, in other word, is being punished for the weakness of allowing a man to hold sway over her (though she certainly never seems to be that interested in the guy…but I guess Marston holds his women to a high standard in these matters.) When she tearfully regrets failing Steve, the suggestion is that she’s been unfaithful. This is emphasized by the fact that she’s embarrassed to explain to Steve exactly what happened….

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Again, though, what’s interesting is that the particular drama of unfaithfulness which is being suggested is one in which WW takes what is essentially the male role; she falls for the dark, seductive femme fatale, betraying the helpless, noble woman at home.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out that there’s an actual feminine femme fatale in the book as well — and by all appearances she is also bent on seducing Wonder Woman — or at least in luring her onto a cruise ship and engaging in…well, no surprises, really.

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Leading her around with her hands secretly tied under her coat, huh? You have to wonder if Marston was trying that one at home. (Bonus points for fetishizing the exotic minority…and for implying that said exotic minority wears her colorful, diaphanous, scanty ethnic attire whereso’er she goes.)

Oh, and last time I promised cross-gender body swapping. Here you go:

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That’s Deception sneaking around in the body of a slave girl. Real women wear chains; real men wear tutus.

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So I thought I was done, and then I keep thinking of more things I wanted to say. Stupid brain.

In terms of WW’s apparent need to avoid submission to, or even perhaps romantic relationships with men — there’s definitely something going on with a kind of butch tomboyishness, and perhaps a hint of a (cross-gendered) Peter Pan as well. There was a bit of that in the first issue as well; when Diana says she wants to leave Paradise Island to follow Steve, her mother says that that will mean giving up her “birthright” of immortality. That is, there’s a suggestion (thought it doesn’t seem to be much worked through) that Paradise Island is, like NeverNeverLand, a kind of metaphor for childhood, and that WW is a kind of magical and eternal child (she is made out of clay after all.) Again, in the second issue, we see WW has a real weakness for contests of strength:

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She’s like a kid, unable to resist the opportunity to prove that she’s the strongest.

There’s probably something of that in all early super heroes…Superman certainly is a kid’s fantasy. It’s just that that’s really remained a part of Superman to some degree, but the corresponding meme for Wonder Woman has gotten a little lost, I think. Wonder Woman is a pretty sober character now; she’s more about standing up for women or peace or whatever, and maybe less about just beating the tar out of the boys at baseball. Which seems kind of too bad.

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All right, that’s it…except, man, look at this Hitler caricature.

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That is one gloriously saggy-faced ubermensch. And in the second panel, Marston has him so nuts he’s chewing the carpet. Literally. That cracked me up.

Victimhood

I was writing here about Camille Paglia’s not exactly original thought that feminist academics promote a “maudlin, victim-centric curriculum.” The term implies that the academics turn every subject and situation into a chance to view their favored group as victims. I find this is not true, not for feminists, not for blacks, not for conservatives, not for any group that feels pushed from the mainstream. For every situation that they spin into a chance to play victim, there’s another that’s turned into a chance to play hero. Often enough it’s the same situation. The essential aim isn’t to feel like a victim or a hero. It’s to feel important, to feel like you’re the center of the show.

Victimhood is passive, which is why critics pay attention to that half of the business. Everyone knows you’re not supposed to be passive, and people on the right have especially strong feelings about the point: they want everyone to be up and doing and starting small businesses. Wanting to feel important doesn’t get nearly as bad a press.

UPDATE: During all these years of complaining about the left’s “victim mentality,” the right has also been sneering at the left’s use of “empowered” and “empowerment.” Can’t say I blame them, but anyone who talks about being empowered is not addicted to being a victim, just to being self-important.

Hi, Manga Fans!

We did a manga roundtable a while back and I messed up my contribution by stringing it out too long. Basically, I don’t know manga and have the usual outsider’s reaction to the characters’ odd features, etc. I could have boiled my thoughts way down. As in:

Manga Haiku

Man, those eyes are big.
People like this shit? Jesus!
I prefer Batman.

I don’t mean it, though. We all read some of YKK and the art was first-rate. Now we’re reading Helter Skelter and the art is also quite fine and quite different. The story … well, gee, why spoil the moment?

Creative Types

I find this so stupid. Miles Davis and Donald Barthleme were involved with the same woman, a children’s writer named Karen Kennerly. Kennerly didn’t want them to meet, though not for the obvious reason. “I thought Miles would outcool Don, and Don had a very big investment in being cool,” she says. But the meeting happened, and it was at Elaine’s, of course.

When we got there — it was very early, about 6:30 — Miles was sitting at a table by himself, already halfway thru dinner. It wouldn’t have occurred to him to wait on anyone.

Well, sure.

He had on these big sunglasses. Finally, Don said, “Hey, man, why don’t you take off your shades?” Miles said, “Why? It’s all black.” After that the conversation was very stiff.

Yeah, I guess it would be.

Then Miles got up and said, “Bye. Gotta go. Good to meet you.” Don and I barely got thru dinner. It was very painful. We asked for the check and the waiter said Miles had covered it. Don said, “No, he has not. I am paying for this meal. Put his money on his tab.” The waiter didn’t know what to do, because Miles only came in about twice a year. Finally I took the boy aside and said, “Just consider yourself lucky that you got a big tip tonight.” He kept Miles’s money and let Don pay for the dinner.

Barthelme also had a really douchey beard. Miles, as noted, had those sunglasses.

Text quoted from Hidden Man: A Biography of Donald Barthelme by Tracy Daugherty

Manporn Ho! — and Further Ho!

A couple of comments on my initial post about our new manporn column have expressed a certain amount of levity at the prospect. Obviously, manporn is somwhat funny in and of itself. I thought that I might explain a bit more briefly about why I want such a column on this site.

Basically, I think yaoi is pretty fascinating. It’s a genre that for the most part didn’t exist in the U.S., but which obviously has a large appeal. As such, I think it’s worth thinking about and talking about — especially since the critical reaction to it from most other corners of comicdom tends to be disbelief and ridicule.

So…Kinukitty is very funny, and I expect the column will be as well. But I don’t think yaoi is intrinsically any more ridiculous than super-heroes or alt comic autobio, or whatever. Yaoi is more unfamiliar, of course…which is the reason to have a column about it.

Update: Kinukitty’s first review of Blank Slate is now online.

Mary McCarthy

The good news is that this morning I found an item on the Internet about Mary McCarthy. The bad news is that it’s by Camille Paglia. I didn’t know she was still around, but apparently Salon pays her for a column where she answers readers’ letters.

Paglia says McCarthy’s works were kept out of “women’s studies programs from the 1970s on” because she didn’t fit with their “maudlin, victim-centric curriculum.” Well, let’s see. Women in the 1970s had no problem making a fuss over McCarthy’s dreadful enemy, Lillian Hellman. The women included Jane Fonda and Vanessa Redgrave, who I think must be accounted feminists, at least in those days. (The caveat is because Fonda, some 30 years on, went Christer; of course that might not rule out some sort of feminism, but I want to be careful.) In fact Fonda and Redgrave celebrated Hellman by starring in a big-budget movie that pretended, on Hellman’s say-so, that the dear lady had risked her life by smuggling money to the anti-Nazi underground thru the heart of the Third Reich. The tough, straight-talking movie Hellman squared her jaw and carried out the assignment. Some victim.

In real life Hellman had done nothing like it. She had a history of lying in print, a history that extended to her account of the supposed heroism in her memoir Pentimento. The account formed the basis of the movie, which was called Julia and now is not much remembered.

Mary McCarthy remarked on television about Hellman’s long record of dishonesty, after which Hellman sued her for a few million dollars. In this contest McCarthy did better regarding facts, Hellman regarding money. She was rich, McCarthy wasn’t, and the legal expenses clouded the last few years of McCarthy’s life.

Paglia, if she cared, might argue that Fonda and Redgrave are one thing, women’s studies programs another. Of course she’d have to explain why there was one brand of feminism for Fonda and Redgrave, and the millions of women who bought Hellman’s books and went to see Julia, and another for the academic programs. She’d also have to explain why highlighting injustice rules out celebrating heroism (or pretend heroism, in Hellman’s case).

She won’t and it doesn’t matter. She’s a fool. She even thinks Sidney Lumet’s movie version of The Group is a good movie.